Sunlight flickers through the gum trees lining the road,
Low clouds creep down the dark mountain outside my window,
What am I looking for?
Grey chimney smoke whisps through the ferny undergrowth,
As black cattle graze on the lush pastures outside my window,
What am I looking for?
Scattered thoughts race through my mind, nothing feels solid,
I can’t connect, I can’t engage, I feel like a man out of time,
What I am looking for is nowhere.
The Whispering Spring Forest
There is a place where tall trees whisper, their voices dance on the wind as they sing,
With rustled leaves and creaking branches, that stretch in the midday sun of spring,
Where green farmlands are sweetly fragranced, creating soft beds for small white sheep,
The warm spring sunlight stretches lazily, across pasture rich and forest deep,
Where scent of eucalyptus on the gentle breeze, seeps into my lungs and heals,
And hungry bees seek sweet nectar, that colourful wildflowers reveal.
A mountain rises from this place, where the fern tree canopy glows bright green,
Because the sunlight kisses both frond and leaf, that line a mountain stream,
High on the peak tree trunks reach up, great columns seek the sun they recognise,
Their branches teem with new life that sleeps, comforted by whispered forest lullabies,
The mighty ironbark trees greet the stars each night, and farewell the moon each dawn,
This is where my heart feels full, my thoughts are free, and on my face a smile is worn.
Distant are the Green Trees
Distant are the green trees, the tall cypress, the waving amber, and the swaying gum branch,
Far away I find myself, confined, restricted, encased in concrete and glass,
I’ve long been its weary inmate, obligated to dig from under a financial avalanche.
I feel days less now as I’ve grown older, my time runs out and days pass with such speed,
Often forgetting what day it is, surrounded by the young shore footed minds,
I feel foolish, angry, I resent the required spectacles that are now my only way to read.
Distant are the green trees, the long grass, the wildflowers, my home near the mountain.
From where I sit, I spy a river of concrete and bitumen, the water is a sea of cars,
They flow forth, a stream of people on their way to where happiness can never fountain.
There is so much sound, when did I become this sensitive, why am I so homesick?
It’s an illness of the heart perhaps, I miss the open spaces between this world and mine.
There is too much of too much in this place, the people and the air are claustrophobic.
Distant are the green trees, the cool streams, the fern forests and the quiet.
Seven more hours shall pass before I can exit from this city to where I belong,
Away from false people, fake laughter, their greedy ambition, to my beloved countryside.
Songbirds on the Peninsula of Sleep
Kneeling, the dream-walker reaches for the fulvous velvet grass at their feet,
Energised bands of light envelop the arms and soon become a full body corona of colour,
The newfound energy begins to gently elevate the walker into a hover,
Floating effortlessly, they cross the bright peninsula, as the warm ocean laps at the cliff sides,
Large round turquoise boulders rest beneath weeping lapis trees, their branches laden with birds,
The songbirds with their vibrant glittering indigo plumage, fill the air with their sweet music,
Large white cranes fly silently sunward, their departure signifying the end of a great journey,
Vivid dreams have led the hovering guest to the heart of the peninsula, a flat fragrant and floral field,
Its only feature is a massive ancient white tree, its vine covered trunk revealing a large hollow,
Beams of alternating light cycle from within the tree hollow, pulsing, bidding a warm welcome,
At the centre of each flower growing on the vines that cling to the great tree, is a single gazing eye,
As the songbirds begin to trumpet full throated music into the spiralling peppermint sky,
All eyes watch as the visitor hovers forward, silently fading into the light laden tree hollow,
The bird songs echo into silence, all colour diminishes, and the traveller is emersed in brilliant stars,
The stars soon fade, as the dreamers’ eyes open, awakening them to the glow of a new morning sun.
Dan Verkys 